To Help Me Through the Blizzards
by Koza B. Bucket
Summary: Viking AU. Tino can't help but find every bit of trouble in his path, and realizes that he'll need Berwald, a new and generally intimidating face, to help him through the tough times as much as Berwald needs him. SuFin, one-sided SuNor, background DenNor.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

**Rated T for language, violence, and hinted sex.**

**This is the first time in wow... a while... that I've written in third person. So it's an attempt, and it's also me trying to write something with real plot and action. I'll need all the luck I can get.**

**Enjoy it!**

Rough, sudden eruptions of noise sounded throughout the room, bellowing from the throats of the few broad-shouldered and ale-excited men seated on simple stools. The smell of beef stew bubbling over a hissing fire mixed with the stale scent of beer on the intimidatingly virile men's breath. Tino tried his best not to stare too long at the bearded men or stand too long in the doorway, but instead ducked his head and scurried off to a table far from the hearth, where it was too cold for any others to want to stay. He picked at a bowl of nuts and herbs sitting in the center of the table with shaky, red fingers, finding the perfect solution for his empty stomach and emptier wallet.

On the other side of the tavern, things were growing rowdy. Three burly men had gotten to their feet, long hair flowing from their scalp to shoulders and chin to neck, and they were arguing with someone else, a quieter someone who was hidden by the mass of bodies. Tino listened in silence, rationing out the nuts still left in the bowl, as things escaladed into a fight.

"Ya think ya can talk t' us like that?" a hefty voice shouted. The man who owned it slammed his palm onto the accused's table, shaking a glass of ale. Out of the corner of his eye Tino saw another uninvolved group, who had been watching timidly as he was now, shuffle out the door.

"I'm not the one who started things here," a calm man replied. "You call him a fucking _sansorðinn_, you've gotta face me."

"Well, little boy, _he's_ not here t' protect yer ass," a third person chimed in. "So why don'tcha tell us again what it was ya were gonna say t' us." Tino could see them closing in on their victim, forming a thick wall of muscle and flesh that the apparently small man wouldn't be able to force himself through.

"You bastards use that kinda language, the tavern owner and those police out on the street look the other way when I shove my fist through your skull." The calm man had a distinct way of speaking compared to the others, not only as if he had a higher authority, but also was more clear and distinct compared to the soft slur of the other men.

The gruff trio chucked heartily at the threat. In response, Tino heard the sharp scraping of a stool against the wooden floor as the victim stood, ashy blonde hair just barely visible through the wall of bodies and furs. The was a quick shuffling of feet followed by the slick sound of flesh hitting flesh—_hard_—and a grunt as the blonde fell to his knees. Tino couldn't help himself, and felt his legs lift his body off of the stool, away from the meager food that was slowly filling him up, to stand behind the three men and their pained victim.

"Hey—" Tino choked out before the three whirled to face him and cut off his sentence.

"Look, another little boy!" one chuckled, grabbing Tino roughly by the arm. His meaty fingers dug into what little muscle covered the bone. "Think it's the fag's little friend?"

Tino glanced at the blonde on the floor, who was reaching into his belt now that the attention was turned away from him, for any kind of help. The brawny man was now shaking Tino and yelling, but the words went through him, not quite heard, as he stared at the small figure on the floor. He was trying to catch a glimpse of his face, trying so desperately to communicate with him through the fear in his eyes.

Then, help came.

A sharp flash of silver suddenly shot across Tino's vision, then sank into the back of the man holding him. Gasping, Tino stumbled back, and the knife in the stranger's hand acted as if it hand a will of its own, quickly digging itself into the two other men in turn to send them choking and hollering to the floor. Tino's brown eyes couldn't drag themselves away from the scene in front of him, three burly men taken down in seconds by the petite man whose hair had fallen into his face to hide it. He was wiping the blood that clung to his blade on the sleeve of a gurgling man's coat.

On his way out of the tavern, with his thickly-woolen cape shuddering in the icy wind of the doorway, the blonde locked eyes with the bartender, but the angle still left his features shielded from Tino.

"If anyone asks," he spoke clearly, pointing the tip of his knife in Tino's direction. "He's the one who did it."

The frightened man nodded from behind the counter he'd scrubbed shiny throughout the length of the fight, eyes wide and still slightly glazed over from shock.

The blonde murderer scoffed humorlessly as he turned out of the tavern. "Don't you bastards dare call him a _sansorðinn_, even if he is."

Tino stared blankly at the empty doorway for a few dragged-out seconds, then caught the accusing stare of the tavern owner. And that was when he began running.

_Note: "sansorðinn" is an extremely harsh Viking insult meaning that a man is gay, so harsh that if said, it was generally ignored if the accused killed the insulter. _


	2. Chapter 2

Thin legs carried Tino against the bitter wind that rushed into his face, turning it pink and blowing his cropped, yellow hair away from his jawline. His boots, too big and too worn at the heels, thudded against the dirt road until his little ankles looked as if they might snap from the pressure exerted on them. Snow began to crunch underneath him, still white somehow in the darkness so thick that his own breath could not be seen through it. The fluff, covered with an icy and breakable shell, soon grew ankle-deep, then slowly became deeper until Tino was struggling to lift one foot in front of the other.

Low, husky hollers echoed out behind him as he made his away farther and farther away from the light of the town's lanterns, but no matter how hard he pounded his feet against the snow, the sounds never grew fainter. He couldn't help himself, and stole a glance over his shoulder to see a group chasing after him with torches in hand, a fiery red contrast against the lightless sky. The height of some of the torches told him that some of the men rode on horseback, which was not at all reassuring. Horses could certainly plow through snow more quickly than he. Tino picked up his pace.

After several minutes of running and stumbling, Tino tripped for the first time. He toppled into the snow, throwing his bare hands out into the coldness in an automatic reaction before flailing to his feet again. The wetness of what remained on his hands turned them numb to the cold, beginning to tingle dully.

The second time he tripped, he could not only see the torches, but distinctly hear the words of his pursuers and the whinnies of their horses.

"Ya don't think he'd be hiding in the snow, do ya?"

"He'd get frostbite, ya idiot. Scrawny little kid wouldn't last an hour."

"He's real small, though, so don't ya think—"

"There! Up ahead!" At that, Tino's heart shuddered. His feet screamed at him to stand, to move, to simply get the hell away from these terrible men that were chasing him for no fault of his own. He opened his eyes wide in the darkness, tears forming from the dryness and chill of the wind, scanning the landscape for any freedom as he blindly ran. Colour flashed for a second in his peripheral vision, some sort of brightness that disappeared when his pupils fixed on it. Realizing that it was most likely his only chance, the man hurled himself in the direction of whatever distant campfire or hopeful mirage he could no longer see.

Between him and the light was a large hill that made his knees creak, thighs ache, and boots slip as he climbed it, but as he realized that he had virtually no time, Tino threw his upper body into the slope. The cold seeped into his clothes and stung his hands, but with the use of his arms, he could clamber through the snow at twice the speed, moving like a squirrel scrambling up a tree. Hills were good. Once he was on the other side, he'd have a few precious seconds out of the view of his pursuers.

When he got to the top of the hill, Tino's heart sank into his stomach.

He had been right about a campfire in the distance, burning starkly through the black-and-white midnight, but it burned at least a half mile away by the judgment of his eye. Tino gasped loudly, pained as the cold was sucked into his raw lungs, and kept running, throwing himself down the hill as his breath grew heavier and heavier until the gasps were becoming desperate, all painful. He refused to look back, but just bounded foreward, trying so hard not to panic or cry out for help that would never come, towards a copse of trees not too far in the distance. The men would surely see him barreling towards it, his darkly-clothed body obvious against the white canvas of snow, but there was absolutely no reason to gaze back at them. _Foreward_, he chanted to himself internally over the deafening roar of his lungs.

When he reached the edge of the forest, Tino's heart was thudding hard, crashing into the walls of his chest as loudly as his breath shuddered out of his mouth to linger in the air. He choked out a dry, heavy cough as he kept moving, and the sound cut through the night with a strength that could further give away his location. Fearing the worst, the man weaved his way through the conifers, heart sinking when he realized his legs could no longer carry him. They shook with fright and pain and cold, and his knobby knees gave out to land him thigh-deep in frigid, soaking snow.

Tino used the last reserves of his strength to drag his body beneath a fallen tree, hiding himself with snow as much as it hurt his heart to do so. His breathing was heavy and loud, so he buried his mouth and nose in the crook of his elbow to muffle the sound, even though it neglected to let him suck in the huge gasps he needed. His clothes were wet, his hair icy, his numbing face pressed into the impossible coldness.

But he was alive, for now.

The shuffle of running feet through wet snow and orange glow of torches reached him after a moment of stifled fear, horses screaming and men yelling to each other over the sound of Tino's terrified heart. An order to split up was called out to the search party. The torch light grew dimmer as several groups huffed and galloped away, yet a small sliver of light remained thrown on the snow too close to Tino's face. To pairs of feet were kicking in the snow, turning this way and that for any clue of his presence.

"Hey, weren't there tracks back there?" a deep, bellowing voice asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

"They end here." Tino's heart skipped a beat as the two men examined the ground and pondered. The seconds passed too slowly and he swore they could hear his heart jumping out of his chest.

"Hmm," the second man said. "Those tracks back there're all covered up by us and the horses stomping on 'em. He could'a turned at any place back there and we wouldn't've noticed."

They both sighed heavily, as if it was a great burden to be the pursuer rather than the pursued.

Frankly, Tino couldn't care less if they were complaining or not when the light from their torch disappeared and crunching footsteps faded to the eerie silence of a winter night. It was several shivering moments before the wet snow became too much for him and he had to bravely shuffle out from underneath the overturned log, breath suddenly held every time his clothes scraped the bark. Thankfully, no angry men on massive horses bounded towards him. The man's eyelids soon grew as heavy as his limbs, but as he leaned back against the rough solidness of the tree, he remembered that one should never drift into unconsciousness in the middle of a snowstorm.

But he was so _tired_.

Tino's breaths slowed, the rise and fall of his chest keeping time with the soft bursts of wind that shook the trees' branches above his head and sent a shower of needles into his hair. He'd given up on lazily swatting them away and instead let his arms lay limply in his lap while his head began to droop from the strain of its weight on his neck.

Suddenly, a blinding, orange light shined on him, causing his eyes to widen in shock them squint from the brightness. He yelped helplessly and stumbled to his feet, falling backwards on legs softer than noodles to slide back down the log. Panicked, Tino sucked in a breath to release a hearty scream.

"Wait!" a dark, low voice grunted, too close to him. A rough and calloused hand pressed onto his mouth and he struggled with all of his might, but the stranger was twice his weight and much taller than he. Tino screamed into the man's hand anyways, tasting the salt of skin as he desperately kicked. "Please, stop!"

Tino's voice finally faltered, realizing that the muffled sounds he was making was not enough to attract help—as if any was lying in wait—and he went limp, defeated and too exhausted to fight any longer. It was over. They had won.

The man seemed to realize Tino was beaten. "Are ya done?" he asked too quietly, a fake kindness in his voice that made Tino shiver even more. "If I take m' hand 'way, will ya be quiet?"

Tino nodded, sure that his vocal chords were too strained too do any good.

"Good," the stranger said, making Tino flinch. He released the little man's face, wiping his hand on the fabric of his pants. "'M here t' help ya."

"What?" Tino exclaimed, a sudden shimmer of hope shown in his eyes and cracked little voice.

"Far as I know, yer jus' lost 'nd cold out here in th' snow. Couldn' let ya die out here." Tino felt like screaming or crying or hugging the man, but he could hardly stay on his feet.

"Th-thank you," was all he could say as a reply, because his head was spinning and he was beginning to sway from the weight his knees had to hold up.

The man caught him when he fell foreward. Tino didn't want to move away, because two big, warm hands were gripping the tops of his arms, and it felt so _good_.

"Yer freezin'," he noted at the touch of cold, wet fabric against his hand. "Need t' get ya home, 'kay?"

Tino simply nodded, not moving out of place and not knowing where "home" was.

A few seconds ticked by, and the man still did not release him from the awkward grasp. "Can ya walk?"

Tino nodded again, more quickly this time as he reluctantly stepped away, then back towards the stranger, his legs acting on their own. He stumbled and ended up toppling face-first towards his savior again. The man caught him before he could get too close.

"No..." Tino muttered in response to his question, a more honest answer than his last.

The stranger, looking him over with small, piercing eyes, slid his hands down Tino's body, one arm curling around his waist and the other behind his knees. He gave a noise of protest, but the man picked him up and cradled the small form in his arms wordlessly. The warmth was immense and seeped into Tino like water into a sponge. He sighed in thanks, unable to form the words.

The tall man began to trudge through the never-ending wind and shin-deep snow, Tino's weight balanced easily in his arms, and the torch now in a hook on his belt to light the path around the two. Tino felt his mind slipping away again, going fuzzy and whiter than the puffs burrowing into his hair and piling atop his chest, but the man carrying him gave him a slight shake.

"M'sorry," he muttered close to Tino's ear. "Y'can't fall 'sleep 'cause yer so cold."

"M'kay..." Tino agreed drowsily, shamelessly burying his frozen nose into the warmth of the man's chest.

"Jus' keep talkin'," he suggested, finally finding a steady pace that wouldn't shake the man in his arms too much.

"What's your name?" Tino offered as a conversation starter, awkward as it was to be having a conversation with a man that had him held in his arms like a child.

"Berw'ld."

"Berwald?" he asked, not quite understanding the stranger's accent. It sounded like he was talking around a mouthful of rocks, and Tino couldn't even tell if he was through the darkness.

The stranger nodded. "Yours?"

"I'm Tino," he sighed, disliking the energy it took out of him to speak. It would be so much easier to curl himself into the warm mass carrying him off into the distance, but some small instinct told him not to. Not to mention that Berwald gave him another shake when his eyelids fluttered.

"Y'can't go t' sleep now," he explained again. "We're almos' there."

"Alright," Tino replied, trying to blink the tiredness away. He glanced around them to find a campfire not to far in the distance, the same campfire he'd looked towards earlier for salvation when there was no other hope. It was steadily approaching, thanks to Berwald's long legs and hefty stride.

"Why were ya in th' forest?" the man asked as an attempt to keep Tino alert.

"I'd really rather not talk about it," came his muttered reply, dashing all hopes for a conversation.

"M'sorry."

The rest of the trip was filled with silence other than the crunch of boots and Berwald's steady breathing in Tino's ear, but not another word was uttered. Tino fixed his attention on the campfire that grew nearer and nearer with every strong step, relying on it to keep his eyes open. Because it was still frigid, the wind blowing directly into their faces and pushing through the thin articles of clothing. Tino swore his hair and coat were frozen and stiff, but when the crackle of burning wood reached his ears and smoke to his nose, he didn't care. He felt like crying.

The last things he could remember as he slipped out of consciousness were a warm tent taking the sting of the wind away and a heavy, furred blanket taking the cold away.


End file.
